


Better Judgment

by Stormweaver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormweaver/pseuds/Stormweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for therealbucky05:  Sherlock babysits Mycrofts baby.   It went off on a tangent, will be a couple of chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always go to Miz-Joely who helps me beat ideas into submission. All mistakes are my own.

In some ways, the Mind Palace of Sherlock Holmes is an impregnable fortress – the full capabilities of his mind buttressed in, protected from all the minutiae that might otherwise distract him. The walls of the Mind Palace have withstood the roar of a train, the clacking of high heels on tile, his mother’s irate tones and the shrill ringing of the doorbell. Those walls had never been breached. Until today.

  
Ask John Watson and he’d guess that something exciting, dangerous, would be the disrupter – gunfire, an explosion, sirens. Lestrade might suggest something different; a whiff of scent, a sliver of sound, something so intangible as to tease the senses.

  
No, neither man would be correct. The sound that tore Sherlock Holmes from his Mind Palace was a squeal so high pitched that the only creature also to hear it was likely the stray dog rummaging through Mrs. Hudson’s bins. The squeal uttered by his three month old niece.

  
Against his will, his eyes snap open and his limbs flail about as the squeal shatters the quiet. Blinking rapidly, he looks up into crystalline blue eyes before a small hand slaps him on the cheek. She sits on his chest, his hands holding her steady. His gaze swivels to where Anthea sits, and he startles at what he sees.

  
Gone is the perfectly put together woman that graces his brother’s side; in her place sits a woman who looks like she was rolled up and put away wet. Her hair is piled on top of her head in an erratic bun, stray hairs framing a face marred with red splotches and dark circles.

  
“What in hell happened to you?” he blurts out, shocked to see her in such a state of dishevelment.

  
Her hands scrub at her face and he notes clinically that her manicure is in a dreadful state. “Your brother was only supposed to be gone for two weeks. He promised. Quick meet and greet with the G7, minor fire to put out, nothing to worry about love, be back in a jiffy.”  At his look of confusion, she continues, “That was five weeks ago.”

  
Sherlock straightens, lifting his niece gingerly as she shakes her chubby little hands.  He keeps his tone calm, low, in an attempt not to scare the child.  “Has there been word? Demands?”

  
Anthea rolls her eyes at him, annoyance and frustration evident as she sinks further into the cushions of John’s chair. “He’s not missing, the idiot.  He’s in Turkey.  Turkey? Yes,  no, I think he’s in Turkey.”  
  
“Turkey? Wasn’t the G7 held in Australia?”  
  
Slumping bonelessly, her eyes close briefly before fluttering open. “Yes, then he was in Beijing, something about the IMF and after that he was at the Hague. I’ve simply lost track of him.”  
  
The moment of terror that Sherlock feels at the thought of Mycroft being abducted pales in comparison to the reality that Anthea presents. He settles his niece, Sophie, into the crook of his arm and studies her mother with concern. In all their dealings, he has always found Anthea to be focused, efficient and incredibly competent. To see her in this state doesn’t bode well for anyone; not Sophie, not Anthea and certainly not Mycroft.  
  
He studies the mother of his niece carefully.  ”There’s no way to say this politely, Anthea, and I am the least able person to try.  You look like death warmed over. When was the last time you took a shower?”  
  
He expects her to get angry, however; she merely groans and sinks, if possible, further into the cushioned chair. “Two days, I think.”  
  
He suppresses a shudder. “Towels are in the cupboard in the bathroom.  Go.  I’ll watch Sophie.”  The smile she gives him is scarily close to the open affection that lights up her face when she holds her daughter.  
  
Watching Anthea as she walks into the bathroom, he reaches into his pocket and extracts his mobile.  
  
 _Molly Hooper, I need you. It’s urgent. – SH_  
  
After a moment, his mobile chirps. He glances down at the mobile and frowns as he sees her reply. - **I have plans – MH  
**  
 _The fate of the free world hangs in the balance, cancel them. I’ll explain at Baker St. – SH_  
  
 **There had better be an issue or you’ll rue the day – MH**  
  
A swell of fury fuels Molly Hooper as she steps into 221B thirty minutes later and her mood does not improve when she feels a hand slip over her mouth and an arm sweep around her waist to pull her into the hall. A veritable catalogue of defensive moves go through her thoughts and each is discarded the instant she recognizes the hint of Sherlock’s cologne. Her gaze flicks up to stare at him and he eases his grip though he keeps his hand over her mouth and gestures with his chin at the sofa where Sophie Tod-Holmes is buttressed in by pillows as she sleeps  
  
When he releases Molly, she hisses, “The fate of the free world involves babysitting?”  
  
His eyes rolled heavenward before he grips her arm and pulls her down the hallway to push the door of his bedroom open, ever so carefully. Gesturing grandly, he lets her see that Anthea is curled up on his bed sound asleep before closing the door and dragging her into the kitchen. “Babysitting, no,” he says softly as he sweeps one hand through his curls, “that has been taken care of.  What I require from you is far simpler.” Reaching into his wallet, he extracts a credit card and hands it to her.  “For reasons failing understanding, my idiot brother abandoned his child and her mother five weeks ago on government business. While I did not and do not understand why those two would decide that they needed a child, the fact remains that they have one. What I would like you to do is simple; take Anthea to the spa that I’ve contracted with and don’t let her leave until she’s relaxed and pampered. Mother will be arriving shortly to collect Sophie.”  
  
Blinking, Molly stares at him. “You want me to spend the day at a spa?”

Sherlock lets out his breath in a great gush of air.   “No, I’d like you to spend a weekend at a spa.  I focus on logic, Molly.   It’s obvious to anyone with eyes to see that Anthea is beyond exhausted.  A single nap and a shower won’t cure her ills, but a weekend at a spa may help begin the process.  She is unlikely to stay there unless she is in the company of someone she considers a friend; in this case, you.”

“And what will you be doing?”  
  
The smile that Sherlock gives her has her take a step backwards. “After I acquire the services of someone far better equipped to deal with certain aspects of this situation, I shall go collect my wayward brother and remind him about the pros and cons of sentiment.”


	2. Chapter 2

As his hostess goes through the elaborate motions of the tea ceremony, Mycroft Holmes is making very certain that he doesn’t reveal his deep and abiding hatred for green tea.  Projecting an aura of calm and contentment comes easily to him, it’s a skill he’s honed since his youth enduring the countless ‘tea parties’ of his elder sister.

The door to the elaborate room slides open and Mycroft struggles to stand as one of the Japanese Princesses sweeps into the room.   She speaks softly to Mycroft’s host and then, as if summoned by his thoughts, Mycroft’s elder sister strides into the room swiftly followed by Sherlock.   Any sardonic greeting he plans to give dies unspoken as his brother irrevocably shatters protocol by stepping in front of the Princess and into Mycroft’s personal space as he struggles to rise from the cushion on the floor.

In a move that is far more Mummy than Sherlock, Sherlock reaches out and grips Mycroft by the hair at the nape of his neck and lifts.  Pain proves to be all the motivation Mycroft needs as he practically levitates off the cushion.   As soon as he’s standing, Sherlock’s grip shifts from his nape to his left arm.  Later, when pressed about the incident, Mycroft will state that he doesn’t know which had shocked him more – Sherlock’s humiliating manhandling of his person or hearing Sherrinford apologize in Japanese for Sherlock’s breach of etiquette before she explains that they are there to deal with a wrong to the family honour.   On any given day, the idea of the family honour being avenged by Sherlock would have made Mycroft indulge in an atypical laugh but today is not that day.  He sees his potential demise in his siblings’ gazes.

As soon as Mycroft’s head is level with Sherlock’s, he hears his brother murmur, “Do struggle, brother mine.  Give me an excuse.  I do believe Sherrinford might forgive me in this instance.”

Whatever response Mycroft could muster dies in his throat when he hears Sherrinford hiss, “Forgive you?  Darling, I’ll give you a bloody alibi.”

Turning her attention back to his hosts, she says something in a rapid fire Japanese that Mycroft can’t quite follow and then Sherlock applies pressure to his arm and they’re moving forward out of the room.  Whatever frustration he would feel about having lost a priceless opportunity to deal with Japanese counterparts is lost in the sea of pain that drowns him when Sherlock gives his arm a twist.   This tight grip is maintained as they exit the building, a quick reminder squeeze is applied as he’s shoved into the back of a British embassy vehicle and any hope of a reprieve is killed when Sherlock and Sherrinford squeeze into the car on either side of him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands.

Perplexed by their behaviour, his heart sinks when he hears his sister’s voice say conversationally, “For a man who prides himself on being intelligent, you’re rather dull, Mycroft.  Tell me, Mycroft, how long has it been since you’ve been home?”

He blinks, confused, “A few weeks, something that is not out of the norm.  I fully intended to touch base with Mummy later this week.”  He gasps as pain blooms up, clawing at his throat and he swivels his head to look at Sherlock who has landed a furious punch to his shoulder.  The much-abused arm throbs and steals away Mycroft’s ability to speak – he’s not one for the physical, he’s always left that to Sherlock and now he’s paying for it.

 “I told you, he’s an idiot,” Sherlock growls, blue eyes ablaze. 

Gathering his dignity around him like a cloak, Mycroft gasps out, “Tell me, brother mine, what have I done to deserve this treatment?”

“Done?” Sherlock asks as he barks out a laugh, “Not a blessed thing, Mycroft.  That’s what you’ve done. Not a blessed thing which is entirely the problem.”  Fury blazes in Sherlock’s mercurial eyes and that terrifies Mycroft far more than if they were cold.  “Tell me,” Sherlock begins conversationally, “do you even know or care how your daughter fares?  And what of her mother?”


	3. Chapter 3

If pain was the measure of Mycroft’s day, then Molly Hooper’s day was a contrast in sybaritic delights. At the moment, she didn’t know whether she was going to kiss Sherlock Holmes for treating her to two days of paradise or kill him for introducing a level of paradise that there was no way she could achieve on her own.   The one glance she’d had at the spa’s brochure had made her blanch before the woman in charge of the spa had firmly taken the brochure away from her and told her that Mr. Holmes had arranged everything.

From Molly’s perspective, everything was lovely.   Upon arriving, the women had been whisked away to a luxurious suite of rooms that were larger than Molly’s flat.   Molly’s jaw had dropped when she took in the enormous King sized bed with its soft cotton sheets and fluffy down duvet. Her heart practically stuck in her throat when she went into her bathroom and took in the opulence.

“There’s a full cosmetics bench in my bathroom,” Molly stammers as she emerges from the bathroom, her eyes slightly glazed and Anthea smiles as she watches her friend’s bemusement.

Anthea nods, a faint smile curving her lips, “First time at a spa ever, or first time here?”

“I had a manicure done once, stood up in a mate’s wedding. Couldn’t have chipped nails, could I?” Molly replies, staring back at the bathroom as if she’s afraid of what might emerge from it.

Anthea sits down in the living room that they share and snatches a bottle of highly priced bottle water from a tray. “I remember the first time that Mycroft subjected me to a spa treatment, wasn’t long after I started working for him officially.”

Molly smiles, turns to her friend and asks, “How did that go?”

“I almost killed the masseuse with a towel.   Shiatsu massage is not for the faint of heart.” Anthea laughs, “Fortunately the masseuse was very familiar with those in my line of work.”

Slipping down into the seat opposite Anthea, Molly says, “Sherlock says I’m here to help you enjoy yourself but I’m out of my depth, An.”

A faint smile curving her lips, Anthea stretches out, flexing her toes in the rich pile of the carpet. “If I remember correctly, you said something similar not long after Sherlock’s fall. Not that kind of girl.” Smiling to herself, Anthea toasts Molly with her water bottle, “Not yet, anyway. Look at it as a treat, it may never come your way again so enjoy it while it does”

Taking that advice to heart, Molly threw herself wholeheartedly into the spa experience. They started their evening with a Mimosa Champagne Body Scrub that felt and smelled absolutely decadent, then followed that with a hot stone massage and a lower leg and foot treatment.   Having someone spent the better part of an hour working out the knots and twinges that a day of standing on a cold concrete floor could produce feels about as close to heaven as Molly expects she’ll achieve. If her moans are almost pornographic, she’s not alone – she can hear the stress and fatigue leave Anthea in relieved sighs and moans of her own.  

Her clothing disappears somewhere between the body scrub and the massage with a tunic with third-quarter sleeves and yoga pants in a butter yellow colour with a matching dressing gown and the most amazing slippers appearing in their place.   She admits to herself that this sort of pampering could be addictive as her personal ‘valet’ ushers her back to the opulent suite of rooms where she is shown to a comfortable chaise and given a mug of fragrant masala chai and biscuits that melt on her tongue. Her attention drifts as she helps herself to another biscuit, coming into focus only when Anthea returns.

“I could get used to this,” Molly admits as she watches her friend sit down in one of the comfortable chaises.

“Mmm,” Anthea agrees. “I’d forgotten how good a massage can feel, I think I shall book a few appointments before we leave.   If you think that was heavenly, wait until tomorrow.   Sherlock booked the gamut for tomorrow, massage in the morning, paraffin treatments for the hands and feet, organic facial, manicure and pedicure. I’ll be perfectly blissed out by the time we leave.”   Her face must have betrayed her thoughts because Anthea smiles and says, “It was my choice, Molly, I simply didn’t understand all the demands on my time, didn’t appreciate the sacrifices I would need to make.”

Exasperated, Molly blurts out, “Your sacrifices, what about his?”

“Oh Molly, it’s not that simple.” Her fingers clutch the mug of tea as she turns her attention to her friend, “It’s funny, I never gave a moment’s thought about children until I was told I shouldn’t have one. You’re a doctor, I’m sure you’re familiar with severe endometriosis?” When Molly nods, Anthea says, “I’d had a level of discomfort for years but nothing like I did at the end.   Thanks to my job, I have access to some of the best doctors in the world so a little over a year and a half ago when the pain became overwhelming I went in for tests.   That’s when they found the cysts and recommended that I have a hysterectomy and oophorectomy.”

Staring at her friend, Molly whispers, “You never said anything.”

Anthea smiles wanly, “What was there really to say? I was mourning something I thought I didn’t want. I spent a day wallowing in pity before I decided to talk to Mycroft.”

“You told Mycroft.”

“Yes,” Anthea states. “He is, after all, my employer.   I told him about the health issue and that’s when I told him that I wanted a child.   I’d given it a lot of thought, no husband but there are ways around that these days. I told him I was going to look into artificial insemination, that I’d given up a lot for my career and that I wanted to take a chance on this and then he said something I didn’t expect.” At Molly’s blank look, she continues her tale. “He disagreed, vehemently so. He stated all the security reasons why artificial insemination and sperm donation were a potential disaster, pointed out all the risks involved in delaying my surgery. Flat out forbade me to even consider it.”

“And yet you went ahead with it anyway,” Molly points out.

“No,” Anthea says softly, “no, I cried. He was right. I’d always said to myself that maybe one day I might put away the suits, meet a man, have a child but it never happened. I was fine with that because I love my job but there I was, watching that future dissolve because of something so completely beyond my control. A future I was willing to risk my health for. So I sat in his office and I did the unthinkable, I cried like I was dying and that’s when he did the most incredible thing.   He provided a rather neat and tidy solution to my problem. Surrogacy. He even offered a potential donor that security couldn’t find fault with, himself.”

Molly blinks in surprise, “Why did you go away for seven months if you used a surrogate?”

“Given my medical health, I confirmed with specialists to see if surrogacy was even possible and when they confirmed it was, I had eggs harvested and then underwent surgery. I opted to take time off to get to know the surrogate who carried Sophie, to be there during the pregnancy.” Anthea plucks a biscuit from the tray and savours it before turning her attention back to Molly, “She’s an incredible gift, Molly.”

“Now, if only he realized that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between here and ff.net, I received more mail on that last chapter than on all my fics combined. Sorry if I didn't reply to your comments - I don't want to give anything away.


End file.
